


Poetry, The Miscellaneous Archive

by jacksgreysays (jacksgreyson)



Series: Original Work [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Dragons, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Poetry, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2018-11-21 20:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11365209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksgreyson/pseuds/jacksgreysays
Summary: Archive of Miscellaneous Poetry, originally posted on tumblr





	1. Word Prompt (K4): King

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted as a recording

You think we didn’t see you up there?

Hiding away in your castle towers,

enjoying the struggles and pain of your people.

It’s not time yet,

but it will be.

When we decide that we’re ready.

We’re ready for you to stop.

We’re ready to make you stop.

And we will.

Your children may cry,

may rage and scream,

may throw themselves on their knees for mercy.

And for them, we may allow this.

Or we may not.

It’s been a long rule,

and who knows what they’ve learned in your shadow.

As for us?

Undoubtedly, there will be war.

There will be confusion.

Uncertainty mixed with tradition mixed with revolution.

Can you imagine?

That heady mix

*sigh*

Just breathe it in.

It goes down smooth,

vibrates in your chest.

The sound of heartbeats and footsteps,

marching in time.

Draw the bridge,

lock the gates,

set your guards along the walls.

(Or don’t.

Because they’re our brothers, not yours)

Prepare,

because we have.

And we’re eager and hungry,

and just this side of desperate.

Take one last drink,

one last sleep.

Kiss your queen,

hold your children.

Because tomorrow?

Is ours.


	2. Know Your Place

Know Your Place

he shouts from his podium, hundreds of thousands raising their arms in blind devotion

they say from behind their desks, signing papers full of words they don’t understand

those are the last words before three shots to the back, bleeding out on the concrete

just sit quietly, follow orders, they know what’s best for you so smile and be pretty

Know Your Place

but what even is my place and who are you to tell me so?

i will not let myself be shoved into a box, pushed to the side, stuck in the corner

i am a person, growing and living, constantly changing–i am in motion;

why know my place when i can know my direction and speed instead?

Know Your Place


	3. Word Prompts (N2): Need

You are the fool who loved me too much  
But I am the fool who loved you back.

And maybe that could have been enough  
But the world is not kind to fools in love

So sweet  
That we would even hope  
Or try despite the odds

And yet  
There is but a few tricks  
To live beyond our time

Trees and stories and family  
A look  
And a smile  
And a kiss  
And a love

Ah, but that look  
To ensnare even the strongest of beasts  
How sharp its teeth  
Yet thin its skin

But we love  
And we try  
Or cease to be

Is that not enough for fools in love?


	4. Untitled (2016-07-01)

Once, my father cried in front of me.  
That’s a lie.  
He’s cried in front of me four times.  
But never where anyone else could see it.  
I stared at him in silence each time,  
And tried to swallow down my laughter.

Once, I loved a girl;  
This is nothing new.  
But I didn’t realize until two years later,  
After I had already stopped,  
And she began loving someone else.

Once, I broke another girl’s heart,  
And forgot how I did so,  
Immediately.  
To this day I still don’t remember,  
Unsure what I did or why.

Once, I stayed up for forty eight hours.  
So exhausted,  
But too desperate for sleep to actually do so.  
I watched the sun rise twice and despaired;  
Saw the sun set thrice and thought:  
Is it my turn now?


	5. Word Prompts (W20): When

When I was a small child,  
I hid from all my fears:  
Like thunder and lightning,  
Fake smiles and angry tears.

When I was a young girl,  
My mother said to me:  
Look beyond these dusty walls,  
And go beyond the sea.

When I grew into an adult,  
Hope was still out of reach:  
Health and home and happiness,  
Lessons they didn’t teach.

When I first fell in love,  
I lost my heart to a girl,  
My mind to imagined romance,  
And my voice to the world.

When I stumble, I then stand,  
Or at the very least try:  
Picking myself back up,  
Dreaming of ways to fly.


	6. Untitled (2016-10-27)

I think of you dearly

What an old fashioned way to say it.

I think it’s sweet.

But vague, in modern terms.

  
Maybe instead.

Your hand fits in mine.

Our hands fit together?

Fingers, intertwined.

  
Trembling, we touch.

Though that could be,

Misconstrued.

Like fear, or disgust. Uncertainty.

  
Similar to hearts beating fast.

Pulse racing, face flushing.

Blood and viscera.

Carnage.

  
Perhaps its too physical.

Go back into the cerebral.

Mind filled with nothing but you.

Obsessive, dangerous, one-sided.

  
I see you in my dreams.

But dreams are just random firings.

Last night, I was a zebra.

Fighting off pirates with lasers.

  
Promises. Always and forever.

Until impossibilities end the world.

Infinite universes,

Can make anything happen.

  
Or maybe it’s too specific.

Fact, more than opinion.

A classic that has survived.

Think dearly of me.


	7. Untitled (2016-11-11)

An expulsion of negative feelings.

—

Exhaustion

I hear on the news:

A cop has killed,  
yet another unarmed brother.  
A college athlete raped,  
yet another sister.  
A spoiled, useless man shot,  
yet more of our children.

Change the station,  
commercials,  
interspersed with music.

Turn off the radio.

—

Malice

I was raised in a Christian home,  
and saw my family fall apart.  
The Church that once guided me,  
turned its teeth against who I am.

God believes in truth and love,  
except for those who don’t fit in?

I no longer believe in religion,  
but for you I’d be wrong,  
just to see you burn in Hell.

—

Despair

Months ago,  
I considered death.  
How sweet  
and peaceful  
it would be.

But I turned away,  
ideas stored,  
cars, knives, pills,   
taunting me  
in my sleep.

Now my life,  
is in the crosshairs.  
Monsters who think  
to control me.

I am no slave,  
no fetish, no doll.  
I will die  
when I choose.


	8. Untitled (2016-11-14)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second poem related to my [Lark and Elm 'verse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11365149/chapters/25523319)

Her dreams are sepia toned.  
Gently aged,  
memories muted and soft.  
Nostalgic.

She dreams of bright sunshine,  
trees and flowers,  
fluffy clouds in blue skies.  
Laughter.

Dreams of love, joy, and hope.  
Hoarded, preserved,  
doled out in hard times.  
Treasured.

Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.  
Life passes her by,  
the beeping of monitors.  
Constant.

  
—

  
Let me go, let me go,  
says the lark to the elm.  
No, says the elm,  
for you do not know yet how to fly.

Let me try, let me try,  
says the lark to the elm.  
No, says the elm,  
for you will surely fall to the ground.

Let me fall, let me fall,  
says the lark to the elm,  
At least I will have had  
the wind under my wings just once.

No, says the elm,  
Fly or fall, you will leave,  
to where I cannot follow.  
And I could not bear to lose you.

I will return, I will,  
says the lark to the elm,  
To your branches or to your roots,  
I will always return to you.


	9. Untitled (2016-11-20)

Let’s begin with a thank you:  
To those who have come before us.  
To those who paved the way,  
To those who fought long ago,  
Long before we even dreamed to.

Let’s begin with a thank you:  
To friends long forgotten,  
To friends who we lost,  
To friends who faded from heart and mind,  
To friends who are forever.

Let’s begin with a thank you,  
For it’s that time of year:  
Weather turned cold,  
Wind blowing sharp.  
Blankets and body heat together.

—

Glittering chain of lights,  
everyone rushing home,  
sins and hangovers,  
washed away with coffee.

Desert heat, dry dusty winds,  
hole in the wall restaurants.  
The King of Pork says hello,  
as we stretch stiff muscles.

Music plays, shuffled and looped,  
an endless stream of sounds.  
No speaking, no arguing,  
just the smooth rhythm  
rubber on the road.

Speed, weaving, signal lights.  
Sunlight glaring through the clouds,  
Two lane streets, air conditioning,  
Fruit stands bursting with color.  
Miles counting upward.


	10. Untitled (2016-11-25)

we are like glass:  
dancing figurines at first,  
stained sunlight shining,  
dust motes sparkling and brave.

and then we were shards,  
trying to be clockwork gears,  
but only scratching and scraping  
at each others’ edges

trial by fire,  
turned us molten,  
made us stronger,  
bright and changeable

shattered. salvaged. transformed.   
but we are no longer part of a set

—

four panels  
four seasons  
four elements  
four daughters

oh, look how we fell apart

painted wood and polished stone  
flowers in vases forever preserved  
four panels, parallel and proud

movement, months passing,  
winds changing pace  
trees swap colors like dresses  
the sun says farewell

i was born with water in my lungs,  
burn scars decorating my skin,  
bones growing, breaking, healing,  
i breathe, i speak, i remember

we fall

—

why do i have so many goddamned clothes?

costumes and uniforms and disguises,  
hanging, waiting, ready  
colors bright and patterns bold,  
fabrics thin and smooth, thick and warm,  
dresses, skirts, suits, shorts,  
plumage of an ever changing bird

no, this is ridiculous, i have too many clothes


	11. Untitled (2016-11-28)

A one person love story.  
No, I’m not Narcissus, lost to my reflection,  
ignorant and apathetic to the world.  
But, statistically, my “type” averages out  
to “myself.”

Of the five times I’ve fallen in love,  
three of five were female.  
And three (and a half) were in the same,  
broad “please check one of the following”  
ethnicity.

With boys, I get tongue-tied,  
starstruck by their looks, their kindness.  
I shy away, and appreciate from afar.  
Blush high on my cheeks,  
skin aching.

With girls, I draw closer, mesmerized.   
Like a moth toward flame, cliche but true.  
Personalities clicking, friendship building,  
daydreaming of hypothetical futures  
together.

I’ve never looked at any of them  
and experienced lust, heat coursing  
through my veins, tongue tingling,  
as if I’ve drunk the sweetest cocktail,  
lingering.

But perhaps, I’d think, if they wanted,  
if we ever got that close, if they asked,  
fingertips branding desire onto me,  
then I’d give it a shot, at least once,  
curious.

And then follows, our play house lives,  
date nights and meeting families.  
How would you-me-two become us-one?  
Apartments, and pets, and chore sharing,  
compromises.

The problem with being a writer,  
stories woven and outlines drafted,  
before anything happens in reality.  
Futile and foolish, just like every other  
love story.


	12. Untitled (2016-12-08)

potpourri

six chamber revolver,  
spinning, spinning,  
each shining metal bullet  
like raindrops against the roof.

each glance, each touch,  
each conversation turned to rust.  
our almost could have been,  
lost to cherished anecdotes.

four chamber heart,  
pumping, pumping,  
red blue blood flowing  
like fog over the hills.

we ran around, laughing,  
breath opaque under streetlights,  
iron fences, concrete, brick,  
frontiers beneath our steps.

—

before i could speak,  
my grandmother whispered,  
the truths of the universe:

candy colored secrets,  
silver lockets and smooth stones,  
bitter paradoxes unspooled.

her fingertips carving  
forgotten histories and  
butterfly shapes in the clouds.

but dried flowers stole it all,  
crumbled, fragile petals  
displaced in my throat.

—

wait,  
listen,  
be patient.  
at the ending,  
there is a treasure,  
that will make it worth it.  
hush now and you’ll see,  
it’s always been,  
reflecting,  
silent,  
you.

—

Heading to my sister’s place to dog sit,  
I’ve got a crockpot in my duffel bag.  
It’s been at my place for months, unused,  
now it’s wrapped up in my clothes.

Jury duty, back aches,  
hot potato maybe plans,  
this weekend I’ll meet strangers,  
and build a better world.

Outsider watching,  
scavenger waiting,  
enjoying the secondhand heat,  
of a night of passion.


	13. Untitled (2017-01-12)

Sister,  
They stole me,  
and put me to work.   
Put me to sleep.

I didn’t wake  
‘til long after.   
After everyone else  
had gone away.

Sister,  
Do you remember?  
The sound of crickets  
in the summer.

The scent of ocean  
in the air.   
The taste of strawberries  
on our tongues.

Sister,  
Can you hear me?  
My voice echoing  
through the ruins.

Wood rotted,  
cement grown over.   
Everything faded,  
eroded away.

Sister,  
Are you with me?  
Is that you  
whispering on the wind?

Laughter crashing  
in the waves.   
Tears mixing  
with the rain.

Sister,  
They stole me.   
Took me away  
from our home.

The lights gone out,  
the air turned cold.  
I’ve returned  
too late for you.

Sister,  
Again I leave.   
Awake and walking,  
alone this time.

The road ahead  
so daunting.   
Empty.   
Waiting.


	14. Untitled (2017-01-25)

To destroy him,  
you will have to steal from my arms.  
His ribs beneath my palm,  
curving so sweetly.

Each breath I think,  
will this be the last?  
I will trade all of my tomorrows,  
for laughter.

This is not the place for us.  
We are voiceless here.  
Our hellos were our goodbyes,  
empty puffs of air.

But,  
at least,  
for a while,  
he was  
mine.

Lost at sea,  
in the middle of the night.  
How dire that rings.  
And yet.  
Water calm and glassy,  
reflecting  
infinite stars.

I saw a future in his eyes.


	15. Word Promts (P26): Poison

Cheers, he says,  
glass in hand.  
A toast to your risky venture.  
You mimic him,  
raise your own,  
and give him one last smile.

See you on the other side.

Together you drink,  
together you fall.  
Maybe if you’re lucky,  
you’ll reunite.

The last time you dreamed,  
it was of flowers.  
Petals vibrant yet  
soft against your skin,  
oleander and belladonna.

You wonder,  
eyes slipping shut,  
what you’ll see this time.

You hope it will be him.

—

I am the one behind the curtain.  
Levers and buttons and tricks,  
exhausted and flustered,  
but still pushing onwards.

Maintain the illusion,  
protect the legacy.  
I am neither  
omniscient or omnipotent,  
but needs must.

Appearances can be deceiving,  
lies can be well intended.  
At the very least,  
I will dance my way to Hell.

Until then,  
take a seat.  
Until then,  
watch the show.

The Great and Powerful  
will grant your wish–  
(but only if you choose wisely)


	16. Untitled (2017-04-03)

what does it say  
that i am more  
suicidal in spring?  
that rain and clouds  
rejuvenate me,  
while sunlight  
saps my strength.

what does it say  
that waking up  
before my alarm  
always disappoints?  
that morning sounds  
only grate and  
frustrate me.

what does it say  
that i press my temple  
rhythmic tap tap  
imagining  
that i rattle around pills  
shaking, enticing,  
reckless driving habits

i bleed and calculate  
the volume  
of my music  
deafening, blasting,  
i want desperately  
the end of spring


	17. Untitled (2017-04-06)

Like ringing in your ears,  
or leaves rustling in wind;  
Everything muted, untouchable,  
but still real. Still true.

I follow the beating of your heart,  
every step that much closer to you.

I am silver,  
fragile and tarnished;  
you are gold,  
no rust no to fear.

And yet.  
Wood rots, stone erodes,  
but after the end we will still be here.

I do not love you,  
then or now;  
But maybe one day,  
I will remember how.

—

Fingers rubbing at the shell of her ear,  
tugging on the lobe,  
nails scratching at skin.

Nerves, frustration;  
futile,  
pent up energy   
only this slow trickle of expulsion.

She walks,  
head lowered,  
eyes to the ground.  
Mindful of cracks and divots,  
the soles of her shoes  
scraping against concrete.  
Noisy,  
traceable,  
anchored down.

She is silent otherwise.

Shoulders tensed,  
she turns and stops,  
daring the world to come for her.  
She drives too fast,  
eats as she pleases,  
ending every night furtively typing beneath her blankets.

She is risk averse and prone to a sedentary lifestyle, but in this case wouldn’t change be the safer choice?


	18. Untitled (2017-04-07)

everyday, a bottle  
thrown to the ocean  
secrets and wishes written inside

i am here, i am here, i am here,

island slowly slinking  
storm on the horizon  
waves encroaching,  
sand washed away

don’t let me drown

—

We were a series of missed connections,  
meetings and encounters unaligned.  
I could have loved you,  
was halfway there,  
until we drifted apart.

Across the room,  
our eyes first met,  
commiserating smile dimpling your cheek.  
Listening to a fool,  
and trying not to laugh,  
I might have fallen in love with that smile.

A few days later,  
the second time,  
a spark of recognition and pleased surprise.  
You introduced yourself,  
hair dark against the pale pink of your shirt,  
so sweet, the curve of your neck.

Third followed soon,  
later that night,  
lights dim, music thumping, glasses in hand.  
The crowd pushed us together,  
but you linked our arms and drew me close.  
Head resting against my shoulder.

It would have been a beautiful beginning.

I couldn’t find you after that night.  
I had your name but not your number.  
I didn’t even think to ask,  
hadn’t understood until it was already too late.

I might have seen you in the library, once,  
separated by glass walls and a flight of stairs.  
Breathless, reckless,  
more falling than walking,  
I tried to catch you,  
and found only an empty desk instead.

Your name was a beacon,  
I interrupted so many conversations,  
a lovestruck fool.  
Maybe you would have laughed.  
But none of them were you,  
and the months passed.

I could have loved you.


	19. Untitled (2017-04-08)

It was never about finding the truth,  
never about finding passion,  
or your purpose in life.  
It was about surviving,  
about scraping out an existence  
and saying:  
here I will stand,  
here I will stay,  
this is where I draw the line.

Sometimes your line gets smudged.  
Sometimes your hands get tired,  
aching muscles,  
skin gone metallic and sweaty  
from the hammer and chisel.  
Carving out a mountain untouched,  
far from the rivers and the seas–  
no limestone or gypsum here.

Tonight you laugh,  
tonight you cry,  
tonight you remember to feel.  
Music in the air, swooping and light,  
bells, flutes, and piano trills,  
punctuated with brass and playful drums.  
Your body wants to dance,  
though you don’t have the choreography.

What is today?  
A friend you’ve not seen in ages.


	20. Untitled (2017-04-10)

we were unafraid,  
for there was little, then, to fear.  
our monsters easily banished,  
with a flick of a light switch.  
now our monsters are legion,  
hiding anywhere, as anyone,  
instead of being fearless,  
we must now be brave.

—

may passion find a home within you,  
may joy be a frequent guest,  
may sorrow visit fleetingly  
and anger, too, be quick to rest.

—

what did we used to say to each other?  
one day, one day,  
we’ll get out of here;  
one day, one day,  
we’ll be older, stronger;  
one day, one day…  
… this won’t happen again.

—

on silent feet,  
down darkened steps,  
she treads.  
night has fallen,  
the sun beings sleep,  
time for her to wake.


	21. Untitled (2017-04-12)

third wife to be,  
or so you hope,  
he loves you so.  
(but love is not  
what is wrong here)

he and first wife,  
had been young then,  
so quick to fall.  
(as well to part,  
they did not last)

she who came next,  
may not have known,  
or did not care.  
(she thought the same,  
and paid the price)

love is not all,  
for what of faith?  
he loved them, too.  
(third wife to be,  
learn from the past)

—

Someday is a dog,  
shy and sad and scruffy,  
but wise and full of hope.

Someday does not like new places,  
but new people she is willing to trust  
so long as they do not make her bathe.

Someday walks slowly,  
sniffing at the flowers on her path,  
greeting everyone that needs a smile.

Someday is content  
with three bowls of food,  
her pillow and daily pettings.

Someday is a literal dog,  
who lays her head on my knee,  
and looks at me, believing.


	22. Copper (2017-04-16)

Reflections of another self,  
skin still brown, but scaly.  
Teeth become fangs,  
nails become claws,  
vestigial wings  
jutting from my back.  
Monstrous, miraculous,  
I was born of dragons.

My mother, pale blue,  
descended from healers and marines.  
Ethereal, but powerful,  
indomitable.  
She called me her lucky penny.  
I didn’t understand then.

My father, rich red orange.  
Gleaming, vivacious, self-assured,  
the sun in the sky,  
the core of the earth.  
I learned early on  
not to meet his eyes.

My older sister, deep purple;  
the color of royalty,  
of poisonous flowers.  
Everyone bowed to her whim,  
and her talent unparalleled, too.  
I stumbled in her footsteps.

My younger sister, yellow,  
as bright as her personality.  
Buttercups and bumblebees,  
growth and spring and cheer.  
I tried to clear a path,  
then looked up to see her fly.

World on the cusp of war,  
friction and tensions rising high,  
words and talents slung around.  
The weight of magic,  
the sound of drums,  
consequences hovering, waiting to fall.

Resistance, justice, freedom,  
held fragile between fangs and claws.  
Long forgotten disasters,  
hidden traces of the ancestors.  
In the mouth of the cave  
waits the leader, made of tin.

I am not a brown dragon.


	23. Untitled (2017-04-22)

Did you love me at all?  
Fingertips pressing bruises into my skin,  
the scent of your shampoo on my pillow,  
traces of you in my life,  
footsteps in the sand.

I will excise you from my heart,  
scalpel sharp and swift,  
triple bypass for a flatlined love.


	24. Untitled (2017-04-24)

it was never about you  
you’re beginning to get that now  
their snide words, dismissals,  
that frustrating scoffing noise  
and roll of the eyes,  
the way they broke your heart,  
and tore up your dreams,  
or even just ruined your day.

it wasn’t about you.

it was about them.  
of course it was,  
what else? who else?  
why would they apologize?  
they did nothing wrong,  
after all, it’s your fault  
for taking it so personally,  
for expecting otherwise.  
they were just being honest,  
just looking out for themselves.

what a waste of time, they say,  
no sympathy for the weak.  
(how cruelly chosen your words,  
they haunt me even months later)  
you pay in money, in time, in effort,  
you try to hang onto memories,  
of singing and sunshine  
and the salty air by the sea  
(i cried for hours  
on my bedroom floor,  
sobbing and heaving  
hoping i would vibrate apart)

you edit yourself constantly  
now you have nothing left to say,  
everything crossed off  
(everything too vulnerable)  
they ask why you never respond  
(i’ve learned it’s better not to)  
you are silent and stagnant  
filled with hurt,  
cracks poorly glued together  
(no thanks to you)

it’d be over with anyone else,  
stricken and blocked and stored away,  
wrapped in old newspaper  
boxed and taped up,  
let the dust make things softer,  
let the sharp edges wear away.  
(and yet, still, i revolve around you)

if this is what love is, it’s a disease.  
(tear it out of me.  
just let me heal)


	25. Grief

_Grief is a very personal thing, my friend._  
There are layers to it,  
levels,  
variations in how deeply,  
how long a loss will pain you.

 _I’ve had the sharp,_  
distracting pain of a sudden  
but expected loss.  
A paper cut,  
skinned knees,  
the side effects of  
living  
loving  
losing.

 _And the screeching,_  
all-encompassing loss:  
car crashes  
and broken glass,  
bones,  
shards through skin,  
muscle,  
sinew.  
Scars even afterwards,  
aching in the cold.

 _Grief draws closer,_  
intimate,  
visceral,  
breath stealing,  
heart stopping,  
organs shutting down.

_I will not ask how you are, my friend,  
only if I may help you survive._

_///_

_She doesn’t cry often, but she does do so easily, deliberately, spending tears like shiny coins in a gum ball machine. Better to release them when she chooses than to hoard them, hold them off, keep them at bay until the dam breaks. She feels her tears oncoming like the tide, the salty air and the change in pressure, ozone sparkling behind her eyelids. When that happens, she doesn’t batten down the hatches, she redirects them and channels them–tearjerking music with nostalgic, haunting melodies, fictional lovers with doomed relationships–emotional irrigation for the fruit trees in her heart._

_And so when the time comes…_  
when the time goes…  
her eyes remain startlingly dry.

_///_

_“You’re allowed to cry, you know?” someone says, and you grunt in response._

_Of course you know you’re allowed to cry; how irritating. You don’t need someone’s permission to cry._

_You just aren’t. Haven’t._

_Won’t._

_Not for a while. Not for a long while._

_Maybe not ever._

_You feel hollowed out, as if your brain has shut off higher functions, higher feelings. You’ve been slouching from day to day, no momentum to propel you forward._

_You’ll restart, soon, living instead of just subsiding, but you might not be the same._


	26. Ode to Chompy Maiden

Ooooooh

Chompy Maiden flies so sweet.  
To all the ships in the Bone Fleet,  
She smiles sharp and wide and well,  
Then bites their shields and hulls to hell!

Chompy Maiden is so strong,  
She can never do a wrong,  
‘Cause all the enemies she hits,  
Explode and get all wrecked to shit!

So if you think you can destroy  
Chompy Maiden, she’ll enjoy,  
Your crit ones and awful luck,  
Your plan has failed, your ship is f–

FIRE!


	27. Untitled (2018-09-02)

Three in the morning.  
And I am incandescent,  
For a few brief seconds.

They say I am naive,  
Over-sensitive,  
Quick to react but slow to consider.  
You never change,  
But I always trick myself into thinking you will.  
Hoping that for once this won’t make me tear down another photo,  
Replace it with a brick inside my chest.  
I am ever turned towards you,  
Needle to your true north,  
When all I want is the vast horizon, drifting in an endless sunrise, unmoored.

You are not two-faced.  
That would be a compliment.  
You are ever yourself, ever the star, ever the underdog, ever the altruist, ever the expert.  
And yet my frustration confuses you.

You are wild not because the entropy of the universe lives within you,  
No beauty of nature reflected in you.   
You do not heed consequences—  
Why should you when I take the brunt of them?—  
And so you are free to play and piss and pose as you please.   
A creator of stories by default, a repeating track of your own follies gussied up and redistributed.  
Why bother with your B-sides?

I breathe and try to sleep,  
Try to tamp down the fires of my discontent.  
Cool girl, pretty girl, ambitious girl, glimmer.  
Your sparkle is but dust in my eye.  
I care not out of love, but out of habit.


End file.
